I was a champion once and it suddenly infuriates me that he’s never seen this side of me. All he sees is this weakened flabby version of me who’s been leaning into him, practically offering herself up as a sacrifice, giving him whatever of her he’ll take—and somehow right now I feel like she is his fault and all I want is to destroy her.

G drops his hands from my shoulders. “You’re wasting my time,” he says, turning defensive now. “If you’re going to stonewall me, Liz, there’s no point.”

“Why? You’re my dance teacher, so teach me how to dance. Why do you need to know all the intimate details of my life? You keep acting like it’s all so much more and it’s just really”—I’m on a roll now—“melodramatic, you know?” He is ridiculous, I think. Look at him. “I’m not part of your little cult.”

He smiles now. He’s gotten to me and it was all he wanted. “You’re really cute when you’re mad.”

“I am not fucking cute. Goddamn it, Gianluca, you know nothing about me.”

“Okay,” he says, smiling smugly, like he’s already won the argument. “Whatever you say, Tiger. You’ve told me plenty whether you realize it or not.”

I can’t take it. “I haven’t told you the half. I am . . . was one of the best downhill ski racers in the world. I spent my entire life training. I should be at the Olympics right now, and instead my career is fucked and I’m here pretending any of this matters. God, you know what? Forget it.” I stomp off in the direction of the door. I reach the edge of the studio floor and come to a halt, remembering that if I don’t take my shoes off, I’ll wreck them.

But then G’s got my arm. I turn and look at him, that infuriating smile. I shove him away. He laughs. “There she is.”

I lose it. I burst into tears. There are many people who’ve known me most of my life and have never seen me cry. Most of them.

“Come here,” he says. All the fury has gone out of me in a rush, and I let myself be folded into G’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” I say, not exactly sure what I’m apologizing for except that I’m mortified to be crying on this man, who will now pity me when that’s the last thing I want from anyone, but especially from him. He shakes his head, holding me tightly, with one hand around my waist, one stroking my hair.

“Come on,” he says. “Change your shoes.”